


Long-Lost

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley as Raphael, Dom/sub Undertones, Family Issues, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Time Scale In Heaven Is Ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 14:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19200847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: Because there had been a little thing about Raphael's absence and the parallels between what traits he's known for having, the traits Crowley has, and the little 'what if'...Gabriel and co. show up at Aziraphale and Crowley's doorstep, and come face to face with something of a surprise.





	Long-Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DictionaryWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/gifts).



    There's a knock on the door. It doesn't happen often, but it happens now and then. Sometimes a neighbor comes by with something from the garden they have in surplus, and in the end they leave with far more than they came with, because Crowley's garden is nothing if not productive. Sometimes someone's campaigning for something or selling something and sometimes Aziraphale asks those sorts in for tea, but Aziraphale is upstairs doing the taxes, and Crowley had been in the foyer anyway, gently wiping down the leaves of his sansevierias-- few people see their sansevierias flower, but they thrive under stress, and Crowley's houseplants are always stressed-- so answering the door had been no trouble at all, he'd thought. Just slip a pair of dark glasses on and say hullo.

 

    "Yeah?" He starts, as the door swings open to reveal Gabriel.

 

    Gabriel... It had been an age since they were face to face, with his own proper face. It's been long enough since he'd last seen him at all and he hadn't thought he'd see him again any time soon, but he remembers... He remembers what it used to be like. Gabriel was always a bit... high-energy, the sort it was easy to get exhausted by, but he'd... Crowley remembers. He remembers being looked at with glowing admiration and love. Gabriel and Michael and Uriel... 

 

    Michael and Uriel are there, too, a few steps behind. Them, and Sandalphon. Crowley doesn't know Sandalphon the same way he'd known the others. He has a feeling Sandalphon is something like his replacement. 

 

    The others had been examining the mailbox, and the flowers along the walk, and the paving stones, marveling at the location, but now all four stare at him. It's not how he'd have expected being stared down by four angels to feel-- they don't look at him the way an angel (most angels) look at a demon (most demons). He sees shock, sadness, wonder. 

 

    "Raphael..." Gabriel's the one to voice it, and it stings just a bit, even in a tone so soft it seems impossible it should come from him.

 

    "No." Michael whispers, moving to hover just behind Gabriel's right shoulder. Sandalphon crowds in to take his left hand, Uriel squeezes in against his back and closes her eyes...

 

    They'd had pictures of him-- there was the rub, they'd had pictures of him through the ages, him and Aziraphale, but the pictures hadn't been _good_. They hadn't recognized him. They recognize him now. The Fall had changed him, as well, he can't blame them not recognizing him in a photograph, he doesn't think he looks like his old self in a photograph. His face is leaner, he's more angular, less youthful than his old innocence made him feel, though he doesn't know how much that shows. But his face is still his face, the twist of his mouth as it ever was. His voice is still his voice.

 

    "Guessing this isn't a social call?" He says, his jaw tight. 

 

    "We wanted to speak with Aziraphale."

 

    "Well you can't. You lost your speaking-to-Aziraphale privileges when you tried to  _destroy_ him. If you think for a minute I would let you alone with him now... he was one of _yours_."

 

    "So were you." Uriel says, barely whispers. "We didn't know... we didn't know it was _you_."

 

    "We thought you died." Gabriel adds. None of his usual confidence and cheer. 

 

    "I never fought you before, but if you'd harmed a single feather on him, I would... I would kill for him. But I don't relish doing it, so I am asking you to go. Let him _be_."

 

    "Raphael--"

 

    "It's _Crowley_. It's Crowley now. And I've been Crowley longer than I think I was ever-- than I was ever anything else."

 

    "We're not here to destroy him." Gabriel holds his hands up, placatingly. Or it would be, if Crowley could be placated. All he can think of is the disgust and the anger and the cold decision to obliterate him completely, not even to cast him out, but to destroy every part of the best one of them... How righteous they'd felt. How satisfying it had been to put a little fear in them, and yet... "We won't hurt him."

 

    "Yes you will. You've always hurt him."

 

    "Of course we haven't."

 

    "You've _always_ hurt him. You've always made him feel small, feel wrong. He is the kindest, most merciful angel in Creation, and you put him on a world full of things to love, things to bring him joy. And he used to want to share those things with you, and you used to tell him _angels don't_. Angels don't eat, angels don't dance, angels don't... You made him feel imperfect. Do you know what it is to feel imperfect?"

 

    "That's not true." Gabriel insists, and he says it like he believes it. He probably does. Gabriel was always good at believing... Believing, even, capitalized. It had been sweet once, and then it had been frustrating, and then it had just been... sad. "Aziraphale would have confided in us."

 

    The others all nod at this, though they don't look quite so convinced. 

 

    "Would he have? _Aziraphale_? He'd have just told you you all made him feel like shit? Have you actually _met_ Aziraphale?"

 

    "Aziraphale is still ours. He hasn't Fallen. And angels _are_ perfect, Aziraphale knows that." Gabriel presses, and the others keep on nodding at that. "We've taken a little time to think about what happened, and we just want to talk it over."

 

    A little time. They'd lived here three years, or it will be three years come October, their little cottage by the sea... two and a half years, then. A little time, by cosmic standards, but a full two and a half years. _Full_ , him and Aziraphale, sharing a life. _Full_ , nights spent with the waves beneath the moonlight. _Full_ , cultivating his garden while Aziraphale sat nearby and read out loud-- usually poetry. _Full_ , learning to make crepes, and meaning it to be secret, only for Aziraphale to smell him cooking and appear in their kitchen as if summoned, his library forgotten a while. _Full_ , becoming a part of village life but still being on their own, still being the only two who... Being _them_ , moving together, connected always, so in tune that they could be across town from each other and still know the other's heart, and--

 

    Oh. _No_.

 

    " _Don't you touch him_!" Aziraphale's voice at the top of the stairs, the burst of energy washing over him, Aziraphale suddenly at his side, wings around him. Aziraphale, furious and bristling, as much iron and flame as he'd been facing the end of the world... " _Don't you ever touch him_! I-- I won't let you! You-- you--"

 

    "Aziraphale. Relax." Gabriel's hands are up again, and again he attempts a placating smile, a little chuckle, that buddy-buddy demeanor cracking under the weight of soured history. "We're not here for him. We're not here to fight. We want to talk about your place with us. With your _home_. Your _family_. And we know you want to be with your family."

 

    "I am with my family." Aziraphale says, his jaw forward. Beautiful and defiant. 

 

    Beautiful and defiant, and a bedraggled but glorious mess... 

 

    "It's all right, Aziraphale." Crowley whispers, though he doesn't take his eyes off the angels outside their cottage door. He angles himself carefully, in towards Aziraphale but never away from their visitors. Touches his jaw with gentle fingertips. "Wings away, love, they're just here to talk. Even if they weren't, they can't hurt me anymore."

 

    Aziraphale frowns at him, eyes wide and worried. Thinking back to their little deception, to the cold hard fact that the angels could absolutely hurt him. Crowley's not sure how to explain he knows they won't. Not that he trusts them, he's been of Hell too long for trust. He has a small measure left and he puts it all in Aziraphale. But he trusts himself to read the situation, and his former brother and sisters haven't the stomach to fight him just now. Not as they reel from the shock of it.

 

    "I am with _my family_." He repeats, staring hard at the clustered angels, his voice trembling with feeling. 

 

    "Wings away. Come on, now, you've ruined your favorite cardigan-- and who's going to have to fix that, now?" Crowley whispers, and though he keeps an eye on the others, he leans in close, his nose brushing Aziraphale's. "Hm? It... it'll be all right."

 

    "You actually want me to talk to them?"

 

    "Not without me and not in our house, but... maybe it's best to be civil. For now. We can talk in the garden."

 

    Aziraphale folds his wings away, and surrenders his cardigan with a sheepish look. Crowley gives it a shake, and it repairs itself-- as does the shirt Aziraphale is wearing. 

 

    "There." He coos, returning the cardigan. "It's all right, dove. We'll be all right. I won't let them hurt you, not ever again."

 

    "I'm not the one I'm worried about."

 

    "You have our word, Aziraphale." Gabriel says, solemn as Crowley has ever heard him. "We won't hurt you-- either of you."

 

    "I'd offer to put the kettle on." Aziraphale squares his shoulders, a little brittle. "But I don't suppose there's any point, is there?"

 

    "We don't consume--" Gabriel begins.

 

    "We would be honored to accept your hospitality." Michael nudges him. "Wouldn't we?"

 

    "Oh." The moment of confidence fails him. He frowns at Michael, and she at him, a wave of sorrow passing back and forth between them. "Yes. We will accept your hospitality."

 

    "We will try consuming something." Sandalphon nods encouragingly. It's a bit off-putting, really, but Crowley supposes he's trying. 

 

    "I'll show you 'round to the garden." Crowley offers, and Aziraphale holds tight to his arm. "Hey-- we've got their word. We'll be all right long enough for you to get the kettle. I'll behave."

 

    "You swear it?" Aziraphale challenges Gabriel.

 

    "In the name of our Creator, we do solemnly affirm."

 

    Gabriel holds out his hand. Aziraphale does not take it. Crowley considers it a moment, thinks of Gabriel once upon a time, robes and long hair and pearly wings, and an eager laugh and an open smile. Then he thinks of Gabriel ordering Aziraphale to his death, and he keeps his hand down at his side. He doesn't mind being alone with them, but he won't let them alone with Aziraphale. No promise could bring him to do that.

 

    "See? Safe." He places two fingertips under Aziraphale's chin. His lips just barely trespass at the corner of a worried frown. "Go on. I'll be fine. We'll be right out by the roses."

 

    Aziraphale searches his face a moment, and then just barely nods, and heads for the kitchen. Crowley steps outside, the angels moving back almost as one, and following him as he saunters backwards around the side of the house.

 

    "You have a lovely home." Uriel says. It sounds lost and distant, as if she remembers hearing it before, and doesn't quite know its meaning.

 

    "Yes. We do. Means a lot to me. Er, thanks." He says. Can he forgive her, ever? Little sister, gentle but not too gentle, and trusting, perhaps too trusting, who he'd once loved... and then nearly three years ago, when he and Aziraphale had debriefed each other in his old flat, he'd learned all about how his long-ago nearest and dearest had treated his beloved. He'd faced them all himself, and seen how cold the flipped switch, seen their love for Aziraphale turned to hate. How could he ever forgive that?

 

    "How did this happen to you?" Michael asks, and then draws back as if from the words themselves.

 

    "Everyone gets boring in retirement, I suppose." He says, plucking at his shirt, soft and black and more cozy than fashionable, and jeans that are nearly three years old, dark and worn just a little softer than clothes he used to miracle in and out of existence. Oh, he still miracled them, but then he kept them, and laundered them. He removes his glasses casually, eye contact daring any of them to say they didn't mean his 'retirement'.

 

    "Raphael..." Gabriel folds his hands together. He does not twist them, or wring them, or fidget with them at all. There is still an energy.

 

    " _Crowley_."

 

    "We _have_ missed you."

 

    "Yeah. Well."

 

    In the back garden, there is an arbor of roses against the wall, a bench set back in it, just right for two. Crowley drags the bench forward so that it has room to expand, and with a wave of his hand, it will seat four. He almost moves to drag the pair of chairs over by hand-- the nice chairs sat beneath a shade tree farther out, with a view of the sea and a little table between, just right for a tray of something to nibble and two glasses of wine... He summons them with a snap instead, to face the bench, the table with them. He watches the four angels exchange looks and nod, and by silent agreement, Gabriel and Michael take the outside seats, Sandalphon and Uriel between them. Crowley melts into his own chair, to put them at ease. He supposes he looks much less a threat when he's lounging, at least in this shape.

 

    "So." Gabriel says, and makes a popping sound with his mouth, drums against his thighs just a moment before stilling. Crowley says nothing, and for a long moment, an uncomfortable silence reigns. 

 

    "Do you always talk to Aziraphale that way?" Michael asks him.

 

    "What way?"

 

    "Telling him what to do. Is it because you outranked him?"

 

    Crowley isn't sure whether to laugh or cry, he really isn't. He settles on laughing, seeing Aziraphale coming through the kitchen door. He's elected not to use the good china for this visit, and it's that kind of pettiness that makes love blossom fierce and sharp in Crowley's breast.

 

    "Angel." He holds his arm out, and Aziraphale comes to set the tray upon the table and to stand by his chair, with Crowley's arm about his waist. "Do you always do what I tell you to?"

 

    "Oh, I suppose if it seems like a reasonable suggestion." He blinks, and then his cheeks go pink. There are, after all, certain circumstances under which he does exactly what Crowley tells him to, a recent development. A very pleasant one. "Or if we're... if it's a _game_ for me to."

 

    "And do I always do what you tell me?" He grins, slow and adoring. 

 

    "You rarely wait for me to tell you before you take care of me." Aziraphale touches his face, fond. A bit embarrassed, but even more defiant. He touches Crowley freely because the others are watching, and it's too late to hide, and whatever happens... "You always do, dear. Why, pray tell?"

 

    "Just making a point." He turns back to Michael, the others. "There's no rank with us. And I take care of him. I protect him. I still know what love is."

 

    "But you..." Uriel bites her lip. The four exchange another glance. "How?"

 

    "Some do. I'm not here to lie, I'm certainly not here to tell you Hell has anything to recommend it. But demons love. Selfishly, usually. We're not all bad. We didn't all mean to Fall. Some of us just sort of... took a wrong turning. Found out too late there was no turning _back_. But you're here to tell us Aziraphale still can?"

 

    "We would sincerely prefer it." Gabriel says. "We don't like to lose a member of the Host. And... we may have been _hasty_ , before. We may have discounted... some possibilities. Especially now, realizing--" He cuts himself off as Crowley glares. "Well. We've considered the possibility that you may have had a point about the Ineffable Plan. It's not a bad thing that we all got a little Armageddon drill. Is it, now?"

 

    Crowley can feel the way Aziraphale very much does not relax at the idea of a drill. He pours the tea, hands barely shaking. 

 

    "I don't suppose cream and sugar...?" He says, stopping at the blank looks they give him. "No. No, very well. Well, here's tea, then. Might give it a minute, it's hot."

 

    Crowley watches him carry cups around to them each in turn, careful, starting with Gabriel. He gives him the cup with the chip in it, and Crowley smiles. Gabriel doesn't really notice, anyway, he doesn't think-- he keeps bringing the cup nearly to his mouth, grimacing at the thought, and lowering it slightly. Michael and Sandalphon do eventually sip very carefully at their cups, though Uriel merely breathes in the steam.

 

    "What is cream and sugar like?" Michael asks, and to her credit she does seem to be trying very hard not to frown at her cup.

 

    "It smells very nice." Uriel offers.

 

    "Oh! Yes!" Gabriel smiles again. "The smell is enjoyable! Thank you, Aziraphale, for tea."

 

    Aziraphale shoots Crowley a 'what's got into all them, then?' sort of a look, but he gives Michael a lump of sugar, and then a little splash of cream, and does the same for Sandalphon.

 

    "Oh, that is nice." He nods and smiles at Aziraphale. "Ta."

 

    "The cream and sugar... improves the tea?" Michael questions. Each sip she takes, she can't possibly be getting more than a few drops. Crowley isn't sure she's actually opening her lips at all so much as she is letting the tea touch them, and then licking them delicately. 

 

    "You don't have to finish it if you don't like it." Aziraphale retreats to find Crowley pouring his for him. "Oh-- thank you, m'dear."

 

    "Have a seat." Crowley says gently, taking the cream and sugar from him, doctoring it up to his liking. 

 

    "I'd rather stay close."

 

    "Then have a seat." He grins and pats his thigh. 

 

    "Rather vulnerable position we'd be in, if--"

 

    "Angel, I appreciate your new cynicism and self-preservation, but even I feel reasonably safe with the kind of oath they gave us."

 

    "Gabriel gave us. Not the others. 'We' doesn't have to mean everyone. Crowley, I-- Whatever they offer me, they won't..."

 

    "We do so affirm!" Uriel pipes up quickly. "All of us, in the name of our Creator. We didn't come to hurt you. We-- regret hurting you. We were hurting. We thought you had betrayed us... we thought we could-- We didn't know how to reach you. And we were so afraid you would Fall, but you seemed so sure, you wouldn't listen."

 

    "Piss poor excuse for what you did, but go on." Crowley leans back further in his seat. 

 

    "In the name of our Creator, we do so affirm, we won't hurt _either_ of you." Michael adds, Sandalphon chorusing after her.

 

    "Look, long story short, Aziraphale can still be perfect and pure. There's a... there's a little ritual, it won't be overseen by just our little unit, it's... there's going to be a council and representatives from all the ranks, and all the usual. Songs of praise, some social grooming, affirmations, trust falls."

 

    Aziraphale and Crowley shudder as one. Aziraphale takes his seat, but he perches at the edge of it, tense. 

 

    "Is that all?" He says lightly, but his teacup clatters.

 

    "Well, no. But the test is nothing, you'll pass. You were only doing your personal best, in an unforeseen direction, and... you get to come home."

 

    "I am home."

 

    "Aziraphale... you are within the bounds of saving. But only you."

 

    "And you want me to give him up, is that it?"

 

    "No." Gabriel says, and Crowley sits up so fast he gives himself whiplash. Too many blessed vertebrae to keep track of, that's some of it, he supposes.

 

    "No?" He asks.

 

    "Well... some will want that. There are a lot of angels to confer with and among the first sphere, a lot of decisions need to be unanimous. It's one thing to have teetered on the brink, Aziraphale, it's another thing to have been cast out in the Great War. And while you'll be put through the whole thing in a heartbeat, Raphael might not even survive a process like th--"

 

    Crowley hisses, but it's too late. 

 

    "Who the devil is _Raphael_ in all this?" Aziraphale asks, and the four angels opposite all stare in blank, stiffly embarrassed _horror_.

 

    "The devil would be it." Crowley says bitterly. He watches understanding dawn and then flicker, watches something settle behind Aziraphale's eyes. "Hi."

 

    "You were... _oh_."

 

    "It's who I was. It's not... I'm not--"

 

    "That's all right." He presses his hand to Crowley's. "I never knew you then, I wouldn't know to compare... I know _you_. You old serpent, as if I could lose sight of _you._ "

 

    "We could... work something out." Gabriel says, flashing Crowley an apologetic look. "There will be formalities, but... now, it might take some time, but suppose a compromise was possible?"

 

    "Compromise. That's new. Thought 'compromise' was a dirty work up where you're from." 

 

    "Where _we're_ from."

 

    "You never thought about who I was before. All the years you spent asking for updates on the good fight, all the thousands of years, you never wondered, you never looked close enough to see. You never _wanted_ to know. It was easier to mourn me. Think me dead. Pretend that the demon working his wiles on earth could never have been someone you loved. But we _all_ used to be angels. Down to the worst of us, and you know that. You know it was our brother who started the whole Rebellion. And you'd have called him the best of us once. I'm not two people you can separate out and pretend. My _name_ is Crowley. I am what I am. And if you offered me the chance, bless, I couldn't take it. Not after how you treated Aziraphale, when all he wanted was to save the world he was given to protect. What you did? Was _unforgivable_. I do not forgive you."

 

    "Crowley..." Aziraphale whispers. 

 

    Gabriel is gobsmacked, the other angels likewise. 

 

    "Well-- well I don't need you to!" Gabriel says, face twisting and crumpling with emotion, confusion. For a moment he's familiar and Crowley could almost remember what it was to love him, his brother, eager to be held in his esteem. "I didn't come here to ask for your forgiveness, I have only ever done Heaven's work! I came for Aziraphale. We came to make amends, and that's not up to you! is it?"

 

    "No. It's not. Aziraphale's a far more forgiving sort than I am, after all. You angels, always forgiving, unless it's demons you're tasked with passing judgment on. Or someone with the gall to love one."

 

    "You don't know what it was like after we lost you."

 

    "But you didn't _lose_ me. You cast me out. So how could I know? And you know what? I don't care. It's fine, all right, Gabriel? It's fine. I'm beyond redemption, I made my bed and I'll lie in it, yeah? Got too close to the wrong angel and I got burned for it, and that's _fine_. You didn't know, not your fault. But what made Aziraphale's crime worse than mine? I know what I was punished for, but you'd have obliterated him for his mercy and his love, and that doesn't seem fair. How you can come and make nice when you've hurt him like you have... when you'd have _killed_ him..."

 

    "I know what it was like." Aziraphale whispers. "I understand."

 

    "You don't mean--"

 

    "I understand. It doesn't mean it's forgotten. Nor quite forgiven. I may not be a good enough angel for that. But I know the fear. Heaven couldn't afford another rebellion. Destroying me... it was to protect others. In case I had been corrupted. It has been decided I was not?"

 

    "It has been decided that She works in mysterious ways." Gabriel claps his hands together. "And if it was not decreed somewhere that you should be spared, you never could have survived your... uh..."

 

    "Execution?" Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

 

    "We didn't want to."

 

    "No?" Crowley slides his sunglasses back on and collapses back into his chair. "Not eager at all, were you? 'Twere done, 'twere best it were done quickly? No feelings on it?"

 

    "Uhhhhhh whatever _that_ means. Look, Aziraphale, we-- we failed you. We allowed you to be put in a situation where... Mistakes were made. But we tried! It brought us no happiness to leave you lonely! You were... difficult to reach. We should have tried harder. And we... apologize."

 

    "We wanted to impress upon you how important the stakes were." Uriel says. "It was never meant to drive you further from Heaven's light."

 

    "What did you think would happen, when you hit him? He'd say 'oh that's right, then, I'll go with you, shall I'?" 

 

    "Crowley, please. You asked me to be civil."

 

    "We feared what might happen." Sandalphon adds. "We are sorry. We didn't think..."

 

    "When we saw that you had been friendly with the forces of Hell for so long, we thought the worst. That you had been betraying our cause. That you might be dangerous. That if you were allowed to speak to any others, you might sow dissent." Michael squares her shoulders. "We didn't know it was a personal connection, not an... ideological one."

 

    "Er, well-- No, certainly not _ideological_ \--"

 

    "I am sorry." She continues, a tremor in her voice. "It is _not_ a stain on you, to have love for one who has Fallen. We do understand that. We didn't then. And I didn't see..."

 

    Crowley nods. It's not Aziraphale's performance to blame, if she didn't recognize him in Hell-- it's Hell, it's the way it messes with your senses at first. She'd have been fighting the infernal static just to _be_. Just as Aziraphale had done. Crowley's first week in Hell, he wouldn't have noticed an elephant stepping on him. Not that there were elephants then, but that just goes to show. It messes you about until you acclimate. For the best she didn't, suppose she'd dropped her bloody holy water and said ' _Raphael_?!" and Aziraphale answered 'who?', and... well just suppose!

 

    "I accept your apologies." Aziraphale says primly. "But I am not ready to move forward from here. I was... hurt. My trust has been shaken and if you wish to earn it back, a single afternoon of apologies is not sufficient proof of your good faith."

 

    "Aziraphale--" Gabriel begins.

 

    "I am requesting time. To consider what you've proposed so far, and how I feel. I cannot go do trust falls in Heaven when I no longer trust my brethren."

 

    "But we imbibed the tea!" Michael protests.

 

    "The tea smelled nice! We enjoyed the tea!" Gabriel nods. "This thing you consume, we said it was good, what else do you want?"

 

    Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "You... you-- I'm sorry, you... agreed to the tea... because you thought it would make me happy?"

 

    "Didn't it?"

 

    "Er... Well... It was..." Aziraphale glances over to Crowley.

 

    "It was nice of you to." Crowley huffs and rolls his eyes. 

 

    " _He_ said you felt bad that we refused before, with all the--" Gabriel reins himself in with some difficulty. " _Matter_ you put inside your vessel. And that we hurt you."

 

    "Oh." He blinks rapidly, and looks between them. "We can discuss this at a later date, surely. I'm... very glad you enjoyed the tea. Thank you."

 

    Gabriel nods, his expression evening out again. He stands, and the others follow suit. 

 

    "We grant you a little thinking time, then. We will visit again!" 

 

    For a moment, he looks as if he has more to say, but he closes his mouth again, and nods, and then they go.

 

    "Well, that buys us, what, two and a half more years?" Aziraphale sighs, and moves to Crowley's lap, curling up against him. He sighs again as Crowley's arms come up around him. 

 

    "At least now we know what they want." He kisses his temple. "Angel... if they come back with options... Don't take anything off the table for my sake. I just mean-- I can't forgive everything they did to you. I _can't_. And you can't ask me to. I was there, the way he-- But if you can forgive, don't hold onto anything just because I can't let go. The last thing I want is for you to Fall, you've seen what Hell is, you can't... you can't go back there."

 

    "I'd rather you not go back, either."

 

    "Doubt I'll have to. Hell's glad to be well shot of me. Not big on togetherness, Hell. Not big into welcoming lost sheep back into the fold. You can take a deal with them. It's all right. It's your call to make, but... just... keep yourself safe when you do, whatever you do. And... if you can... come back to me."

 

    "I don't intend to take any deal which would have me leave you. Though I suppose I may have to go up and do a few trust falls, just to smooth over any ruffled feathers. Nothing that would keep me from you long."

 

    "Mm... speaking of ruffled feathers." Crowley grins and slides his hand up under Aziraphale's cardigan. "What do you say you _strip_ for me. And get those wings back out? Because that was a very sexy display you put on back there, and I never got to ruffle them."

 

    "Oh-- oh, Crowley!" He titters. "Out here in the garden?"

 

    "Not a soul to see us, pet. Unless your lot is spying on us still. And if they are, well..."

 

    "I'm sure they're not! Er-- You don't think?"

 

    "Come on. For the rest of today, let's get it all off our minds. And we'll worry about it all later."

 

    Aziraphale evidently finds this a reasonable suggestion, as he shrugs out of his cardigan and begins unbuttoning his shirt. They had plenty of time to deal with reunions with the Heavenly Host... they had the rest of the afternoon to ruffle a few feathers right here on earth.


End file.
